


The Skull Mark

by Decisions_Decisions



Series: A Marked Soul [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Magical Realism, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4554948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decisions_Decisions/pseuds/Decisions_Decisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soul marks are rare and getting one is supposed to be an exciting thing, it means that somewhere out there there is someone just for you. The procedures are expensive and they don’t always take, but if it works someone out in the world will have a mark that perfectly complements yours. It’s supposed to be wonderful, but what kind of a person has a skull for their soul mark?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of cannon drug use

Sherlock ran his fingers over the palm sized skull that decorated the patch of skin over his heart. He’d been forced to get it as a birthday present from his parents when he’d turned sixteen and Mycroft chose to give him a real human skull. He’d sulked through the entire procedure even as he tried to figure out how it was done. It was tragically simple, an application of strong smelling chemicals over his chest and a series of lasers over where the mark could form was enough to coax it into existence. He’d left with chest pains and a swirling mass of lines on his skin that would eventually settle into a mark.

His parents had been thrilled that the mark had taken as it never had for Mycroft. They had waited with baited breath until his mark had finished forming. When the swirling lines on his skin solidified into the skull their enthusiasm had dimmed considerably. Skulls were not the kind of symbol usually associated with soul marks. There were names, paw prints, landmarks, trees, flowers, almost anything really, but the macabre was always something people tended to be suspicious of when it came to marks. He was defensive of his mark, he’d never wanted it, so he made sure no one outside his family knew he had one.

He also had the unpleasant honor of a reactive mark, a highly reactive mark. It changed sometimes multiple times in a day, depending on the kind of day his soulmate had. Sometimes it was highlighted so the skull looked like it was glowing. Sometimes another item would pop up next to the skull, like the gun that had appeared and vanished for weeks on end and a scalpel that never lingered more than three hours. On one memorable occasion a moving thunderstorm had occupied the area over the skull for a full three weeks. On some dark occasions a woman’s name would appear and cut through the skull in blood red lines that made his blood boil and his eyes burn. Sometimes, the worst times, the skull would be damaged. A chip or a crack would appear in the bone and the skin around the palm sized mark would be red and tender. It was annoying and fascinating at the same time at least it had been.

He’d never admit to Mycroft that the names that cut over his skull had anything to do with his decent into the life of a junkie. The high was enough to take his mind off of the pain of a mind running wild. It also didn’t hurt that the skull would sometimes vanish, like the high was enough to sever the connection between him and this nameless other person who was supposed to love him. It was only when the skull gained a beret in addition to the caduceus that he forced himself to get sober. He turned to crime solving and discovered a new high. When things got too much, the skull got damaged, or another name would carve itself over the skull he had the Work. And soon as far as he was concerned the Work was his soulmate, he didn’t need the skull or the man it represented.

He’d been on a crime scene when it had happened, leaning over the body seeing the green fibers that Anderson had somehow missed. He’d gotten his tweezers and was ready to pick them up and place them in an evidence bag when white hot pain shot through his chest. He convulsed, his arm, his leg, his chest everything hurt. Lestrade had caught him and lowered him down to the ground as he screamed gibberish until the name John formed on his lips and kept pouring out of them like water from a broken dam. Though it hurt more than anything he’d ever felt he had to see it. He tore the shirt from his torso with shaking hands and gasped at the sight of his skull. It was shattered, pieces of bone spread across his chest as the skin behind the shards turned an angry red. Lestrade swore and called an ambulance holding Sherlock as he retreated into his mind palace. 

 

John hadn’t expected to ever have a soul mark, so waking up and finding a skull over his heart when it certainly hadn’t been there the day before had been a bit surreal. It had taken a bit of time to convince himself that there really was a skull on his chest and that he had a soulmate somewhere out there in the world. His mark was in a word creepy and once Harry found out about it she’d teased him endlessly about having a serial killer for a soulmate. She even dragged him to those horrible movies where the lead, usually a woman, had to dodge the violent romantic overtures of her serial killer soulmate. When the mark appeared his dream of joining the army after he completed medical school died. He knew what happened to a soulmate when the other one died, and it wasn’t a fate he’d wish on anyone least of all his soulmate.

His mate was a far off distant thing and he’d given in to the temptation to be a teenager and he’d started a string of temporary but meaningful relationships. His heart belonged to his soulmate and he never questioned that, but he was young and he had eyes. His relationships were always short and he’d always warned them that it was temporary, it had to be. He’d have his skull mate one day, but for now he was a free man and he lived like it. If he’d known then what he knew now he probably would have kept it in his pants, but he was young and stupid.

He didn’t think his mate was a killer, at least he really hoped they weren’t. He wanted them to be an actor, or an anthropologist, or a really big fan of Hamlet. He’d be grateful just for something where the skull meant that there wouldn’t be dead bodies involved if they ever did meet. His mark was reactive and at first the things that appeared had been harmless. Bee’s buzzed trough the eyeholes of the skull, chemical equations would hover over it, and random assortments of things like different brands of cigarettes would flicker over it in rapid succession. Then things started appearing that weren’t as innocent. Needles would bounce onto his skin and sickly green and blue bruising would form on his mark. The skull was often covered by hazy fog and blood splatters had begun to make regular appearances. 

He’d learned that his soulmate was a junkie and most likely a killer too. Still every time the bruising or the needle made its appearance he’d wait it out. If he had a date he’d cancel it and he’d press his hand to the bruising skin and will his soulmate to grow a brain until the bruising went down and the needle went away. Sometimes it helped, most times it didn’t, and he’d decided that if his soulmate didn’t care then neither would he. He joined the army and threw himself into danger whenever the opportunity presented itself. He was pissed off at his soulmate and though he’d never admit it, at himself and battle took his mind off the pain of being mated to such an utter prick. He didn’t regret it, even in the middle of the night when his mark would burn from the strain, joining the army made him feel alive. 

He lived like he’d never developed a mark and he never worried that he might die until a bullet tore through his shoulder and the skull on his chest exploded across his skin. He’d shuddered as his nurse Bill Murray tried to keep him alive, babbling incoherently about Sherlock and please God let me live and he needs me, again and again until his mouth went numb and he faded into unconsciousness. He woke up back in London and he was assigned a therapist and given a tiny bedsit. His skull was still scattered across his chest and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever see it whole again. Part of him thought he never deserved to, after all he’d nearly gotten them both killed. From the state of his mark he was beginning to fear he had.


	2. Shattered

The sharp stinging scent of astringent cleaners and the sound of steady beeping brought Sherlock out of the shadows of unconsciousness. He groaned as feeling crept back into his nerves to reveal the pain his shattered mark had brought him. His shoulder throbbed with a distant sort of pain and his chest smoldered like the ashes of a fire. His mark was the worst of it though; he could feel each individual shard as though they were pieces of white hot shrapnel embedded in his flesh. He brought his hand up to the strangely empty space where his mark had been and hissed as it sent shockwaves of pain across his entire body. His fingers traced what had once been the outline of his skull a bitter smile gracing his lips. His soul mark was nothing more than a skull shaped blemish. It was just faulty evidence that pointed to a conclusion that he knew to be false. Sherlock Holmes did not have a soulmate; he didn’t even have a heart to give them.

“John.” The word hung bitter and heavy in the air and Sherlock could not resist the urge to say it again his lips practically spitting the name. “John.”

His fingers stumbled over their usual path and he closed his eyes against the bitter wave of feeling. It was dizzying, the amount of emotion that flooded him, the fear, the panic, the rage, the coppery taste of blood and the grit of sand on his tongue. He swallowed against the metallic tang and dryness in his mouth. A name and taste, along with more sensations than he was used to feeling from the mark, oh that was new. For the moment however that was unimportant.

He needed to be out of the hospital and out of reach of the gaping idiots who called themselves soul mark specialists. He’d spend an eternity with them poking at his chest and making inane suggestions about why he still alive, why he still had a mark, why it had broken apart, and how he could heal it when the answers were devastatingly obvious. His soulmate was still alive, again John was still alive, John had been wounded, and he needed to find him if he wanted his mark to heal. 

His assumptions turned out to be accurate; he spent a week fending off annoying soul mark specialists. He had more people touching his chest than he ever wanted and they refused to let up. Even Sherlock’s deductions were not enough to scare them away for long. Over that week he found that his marks reactions had changed and they like his mark were fragmented, shattered across his chest. They changed erratically flickering across his skin unable to linger for long before they dissipated into nothing.

His awareness of his soulmate had become far more physical. Tastes and sensations came and went the heat of the sun caressing his back, the lingering ache of pain in his shoulder, the bitter taste of unsweetened tea, the sweet tang of a fresh apple, and so much more. He even found himself craving tedious things like food and alcohol and sex. His transport was beginning to rebel against him and it was nearly enough to drive him insane. By the time he was released from the hospital he had begun to hate John. How much had he lost to this faceless man? How much more would John try and take from him if they did meet? 

He threw himself back into the horrendously easy cases Lestrade gave him. Lestrade wasn’t letting him on crime scenes and Sherlock was beginning to get frustrated from the lack of mental stimulation. The cold cases he had been given all rated less than a five on his scale of interest and he needed something that he could sink his metaphorical teeth into. He pointedly ignored the concerned glances and the strange new sensations that haunted him. He ignored the constant ache in his chest and the things his transport had suddenly decided it needed. He had the Work, he'd always have the Work, it was his calling, his one true love, and it was everything that John could never be. 

 

John was really beginning to hate being back in London. He was broken, broken in so many ways. His soul mark had been shattered, his hand trembled, his shoulder had a hole in it, and he had to use a cane to get around because he had a limp. The constant click snap that his cane made when he walked was almost enough to drive him around the bend. Everything that had once defined John Watson was collapsing around him like a house of cards. He wasn’t a soldier anymore, he couldn’t be a doctor, he couldn’t even walk right, and he couldn’t face his mate like this. His mark was numb at the moment and that was good because ever since it shattered it shifted between mind numbingly intense pain and numbness. The pain was a nuisance one he didn’t like to deal with as even the strongest pain killers couldn’t make the pain stop. The numbness he could deal with, but the pain was a reminder that he’d failed his soulmate and it was a reminder he didn’t want or need.

His mark hadn't been the same since it shattered, darkness oozed out from each of the shards and he felt wrong, sick almost. The word Work would appear sometimes, horribly distorted, but always legible; it would cut across his chest in blood red. When the shadows got their darkest he'd lie awake for hours lost in thought as Work writhed on his chest. The sensations he got now we're far from pleasant, worse than those nights he'd stayed home and held his bruised reactions and waited for the pain to stop. He'd feel a sense of loneliness and hatred so crushing in its intensity that he couldn't breathe. It was almost enough to make him consider a permanent escape, but the thought of taking Sherlock with him was enough to make him banish those thoughts. 

His therapist suggested that he should seek out Sherlock and talk to him about his feelings. It was bad enough that he'd nearly gotten them both killed, but now he was supposed to just hunt his soulmate down. What was he even supposed to say, “Sorry that you’re an arsehole mate but it’s okay because I decided to be a bigger arsehole and nearly got the both of us killed. I ran off to join the army and you can see how well that worked out from the state of our marks. Would you like to go to dinner with me so that we can compare notes on how to be a huge dick?”

That would probably not go over well he thought as he continued limping through the park. His soulmate probably wanted nothing to do with him, and at the moment that thought was mutual. He was lost in thought, so lost in thought that he almost didn't stop when he heard someone shout out his name, well the name John. He only became convinced that whoever it was that was calling him was indeed calling him when they repeated John Watson. He turned intending to just glare at them until they went away. Only they didn’t go away they chased after him with a wide smile. The man was a bit on the round side with a wide pleasant face that sent sparks of memory trying to form something coherent in John’s head.

"It's me Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together. I’ve seen your soul mark, big old skull right over your heart." Mike said with a wide easy grin reaching out to shake his hand and John flinched his hand going up to cover the venerable spot where his skull used to rest.

John almost didn’t recognize him, until Mike seeing how tense John was gestured to himself with a familiar smile. “Yeah I know I got fat.”

“Mike.” John said with considerably less enthusiasm as he returned the handshake. But then the memory finally formed and his smile became more genuine as he faced one of the closest friends he’d ever had.

Mike looked him up and down. “I heard you were somewhere abroad getting shot at. What happened?” 

John gave him a tight smile wondering how on Earth anyone could have missed it. “I got shot.”

Mike’s face fell too much concern flooding his expression and John thought of fleeing for a moment though it was very clear he wouldn’t get far. But he stood and watched as Mike threw on an easy smile. “You want to catch up?”

John was tempted to say no, but the words ‘nothing happens to me’ flashed through his head. That was what he’d told his therapist, that was the thing that had her convinced that he just needed to go out and live. This was something and it was happening to him, if nothing else he could convince his therapist that he was trying. “Is that one shop still open, that little place by the park?”

“Yes and it’s still as good as when you were at Bart’s.” Mike said with a wide smile so genuine it was hard to stay mad at him. He had always been like that and that was for the best as Mike despite his butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth reputation had gotten them into a lot of trouble in school. So they ordered coffee and sat on a bench, Mike chattered beside him, conversation flowing freely from his lips, but then he’d always had the gift of gab. It wasn’t half bad, John decided, it was certainly better than sitting around doing nothing in his bedsit mourning for the person he used to be and the soulmate he’d never meet. 

“So you still at Bart’s then?” John asked curiosity finally prompting him to speak.

“Yeah teaching now, bright young things like we used to be, God I hate them.” Mike said with a kind of fond animosity. “What about you just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?”

John sighed. “I can’t afford London on an army pension.”

“Ah you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.” Mike said with a far off look in his eyes, obviously thinking on brighter times.

“Well I’m not the John Watson you knew, Mike.” John’s hand trembled and he had to switch his coffee into his right hand so he wouldn’t spill it.

“Well couldn’t Harry help?” Mike asked his tone holding a kind of curiosity that was far from innocent and it was enough make John suspicious. Mike knew exactly how well he got along with his sister and he had a penchant for plotting. 

John scoffed wondering what exactly Mike was planning. “Yeah like that’s going to happen?”

“What about your soulmate, you were always going on about them. Haven’t given up on the search have you?” Mike asked it like he was testing the waters, like he knew something that John wasn’t going to like.

“It would never work out Mike you should know that. There’s a reason I didn’t go looking for them.” John tried to put on a happy façade and he was grateful though still somewhat suspicious when Mike skimmed over his answer.

“I don’t know you could get a flat share or something?” Mike asked with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Come on Mike who’d want me for a flat mate?” John said with a little self-depreciating smile as he thought of his nightmares.

Mike giggled and John turned to look at him like he’d grown a second head. Laughter to match Mikes threatened to spill over but he schooled it into an interested smile. “What?”

“You’re the second person to say that to me today.” Mike said through the laughter.

John felt his curiosity win him over and he asked. “Who’s the first?”


	3. Fated

Sherlock made his way through Bart’s his mind caught between a case and the ever growing mystery that was his marked. He was composed looking, on the outside at least; his mind palace however was another story. Every piece of knowledge he had regarding John was constantly turned over again and again in his mind, army doctor, serial dater, recently injured in either the leg or shoulder in either Afghanistan or Iraq; there was only so much he could decipher from a shattered mark. He needed to find John wherever he was, not for himself, but for the sake of his Work he was more than willing to find him. Lestrade had in recent months become almost as bad as Mycroft, even going so far as to have his officers drag him bodily off the last scene until he could present John and assure him that they were both alive and well and would remain so. His eyes darkened as his annoyance and frustration set off the mark, and he mentally cursed it as another spike of pain went through it.

He stormed into the morgue sending the mortician Molly Hooper into a bit of a panic as he walked past her. Lestrade had tired of his constant whining, which was ridiculous he never whined, and after much arguing on Sherlock's part he had finally relented giving him a case just challenging enough to tide him over until he found John. He finally had a case, a mind numbingly easy case, but more than he'd been allowed in weeks. It had drawn him here as surly as a lit candle would draw a moth and he was more than ready to burn in the light of discovery. He looked at the drawers mentally calculating the odds of finding the type of body he needed to use in one of them. Molly stood and followed behind him nervousness painted over her features strongly enough that Sherlock was beginning to suspect she was planning something.

"Sherlock, I wasn’t expecting you." She suddenly tittering as she ran her fingers through her ponytailed light brown hair in a nervous gesture. She looked up at him and flushed looking down suddenly to avoid looking in his eyes. “Do you need anything?”

Sherlock huffed as his aggravation leaked into his expression. "I am in need of a body, white male late sixties early seventies, and not one who had a smoking habit. It’s for a case.”

“I uh I think we might have one that would work, just let me check.” Molly said vanishing from the room only to reappear less than a minute later. She led him to a table that had a body concealed by a black body bag on it and she gestured to it as she walked by it smiling shyly at Sherlock. "This one should do."

Sherlock leaned over and unzipped it inspecting it to see if the body did fit his specifications. He sniffed the smell of decay not yet strong enough to catch and there wasn’t a whiff of smoke on him. His skin though pale with death wasn’t otherwise discolored a good sign. Without looking up at Molly he asked her. "How fresh?"

"Just in, sixty seven, natural causes, he used to work here. I knew him, he was nice." Molly said fondness and a touch of sadness leaking into her tone as she walked up to him. 

"We'll start with the riding crop." Sherlock grinned showing off far too many teeth as his mark decided to make itself known. He bit back the hiss of pain that wanted to escape from his mouth and focused on preparing the body for his experiment. His mark was growing more and more sensitive, the sensations it brought becoming more and more erratic with every passing day and within the privacy of his own mind he was beginning to think that maybe Lestrade was right. But at the moment he needed to see if there were any injuries that might skew his results and that was something he was much more comfortable with.

 

 

Once his test subject had been prepared Sherlock stood over the body a black riding crop in his hand. He pictured the bruising pattern of the victim and visualized the pattern of bruises over the man’s body. He nodded to himself and brought the riding crop down hard on the man’s chest. The whipping sound of the riding crop cutting through the air was broken by a loud thwack that had Molly who was watching from an observation window flinching away. He raised the riding crop up again and brought it down a little lower and again, and again, until he formed a rhythm of whistle and thwack.

'That isn’t normal Sherlock!’ Thwack! Sherlock cut off the memory with a harsh hit of the riding crop against the body.

‘You nearly died, in fact you did die!’ Thwack! Sherlock’s mark simmered under his skin as Greg’s voice rang out again in his head.

‘You flat lined in the bloody ambulance on the way to the fucking hospital!’ Thwack! Thwack! The memory persisted until like his mark it twisted across his chest and with every word it writhed under his skin. He raised the riding crop again the clinical manner he had begun with vanishing under a wave of frustration.

‘And if you think I’m just going to let you on my crime scenes when there’s still a chance you could drop dead at any moment then you have another thing coming!’ Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Stop it! Stop it! Stop! It! Sherlock snarled at Lestrade’s voice in his head.

“Find your soul mate you’re Sherlock Holmes it shouldn’t take you too long! You find him or you’ll never see inside another of my crime scenes again!’ Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

The words echoed in Sherlock’s mind as he brought his riding crop down again and again on the back of the corpse Molly had so generously provided. His hits became more and more violent with the added stress of not having any cases to distract his mind from its new unwelcome puzzle. He stopped suddenly and paced in a small circle waving the riding crop as he forced his mind to calm. He shut out Lestrade’s voice, easier now that he had remembered his entire speech. Molly walked into the room after seeing that he was finished.

“Bad day was it?” She asked him with a giggle her lips, highlighted now by a dark shade of maroon lipstick, pulled back in a shy smile.

Sherlock huffed as he reached into his jacket to pull out a notebook and pen jotting down his notes not in the mood to deal with Molly’s pining at the moment. His voice was serious and he hoped that the tone would make her reconsider the offer he could see her thoughts headed toward on her face. "I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes a man’s alibi depends on it. Text me." 

"Listen I was wondering later when you're finished..." Molly started wringing her hands as she spoke before she was interrupted by Sherlock.

"Are you wearing lipstick you weren't wearing lipstick before." Sherlock said as he looked at her the maroon shade hadn't been there when she'd talked to him earlier.

"I uh refreshed it a bit." She said the catch in her voice and the way she shook her head afterward helping to highlight the already obvious lie.

Sherlock looked at her skeptically before he turned back to his notes hoping that Molly would take the hint that he was not interested in her that way. "Sorry you were saying."

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?" Molly asked her tone and body language making her determination and desire clear.

Sherlock pretended not to have understood her taking what he believed to be the kinder route of faking a misunderstanding. "Black two sugars please I'll be upstairs." He smiled at her and walked up the stairs to finish up in the lab.

 

 

John followed Mike to Bart’s where he was led into a lab that had certainly went through a lot in his absence. The entire building looked different and though at one time he probably could have walked the halls blindfolded now almost everything was unrecognizable. Without Mike to lead him he probably wouldn’t have made it this far, just looking around at the changes with an assessing gaze John felt like an outsider in a place that had at one time been almost a second home to him.

"I was sure he would be here. He's usually here for hours on end terrorizing everyone." Mike frowned looking around the room as though he expected his friend to materialize in front of him as long as he really wanted him to. Mike turned toward John a sheepish smile making its way onto his features.

A woman entered the room clutching a cup of coffee close to her chest disappointment radiating off of her like a small sun. She looked up at them and gave them a halfhearted smile. Mike turned to her with a friendly smile as he clapped his hands together. "Ah Molly you haven't seen Sherlock around have you? I was going to introduce him to John he’s been talking about finding a flatmate." 

The name Sherlock sent a painfully sharp pulse through his mark that resounded like the ringing of a gong. John jolted but forced his body to still as he ignored the way the mark began to pulse to the beat of his rapidly racing heart. He felt as though the world had stopped Mike and Molly's conversation lost in a mindless buzz as the word Sherlock hammered in his head over and over again. He closed his eyes sucking in a deep breath as suddenly the reason that Mike had been so eager to introduce them became startlingly obvious.

"I'm sorry Mike Sherlock left a few minutes ago. He said something about a green ladder and he was off. He just left and he didn't even drink his coffee." Molly said her voice trailing off in frustration as she looked down at the full cup of coffee in her hands.

"Well he can't be too far and he sounded serious about finding himself a flatmate. I'll give him a ring and we'll see if he shows." Mike said hopefully as he took his phone from his pocket and looked through his contacts. 

Molly perked up at that, but John felt his heart drop from his chest even as his blood roared in his ears. He swallowed at the tightening of his throat and he felt like he was standing at the gallows a noose around his neck as he waited for the executioner to arrive. He wasn't ready for this, he was still broken and he'd wanted time, time to come to terms with everything before he met Sherlock. He felt anger white hot and burning mingle with the ice cold panic that now resided in his chest and he forced a grin onto his face that he knew didn't look natural. "I'm sorry Mike I guess I won't be meeting with Sherlock today."

He turned to Molly forcing his lips to form a more genial smile after all she had nothing to do with this situation other than entering the room at the wrong time. "It was nice to meet you but I need to go."

He turned and left as his mark throbbed as though the name Sherlock had set it off or it could sense that its match had recently been in the area. He ignored it focusing instead on the pain that at shot through his leg with every step, it was so much easier to deal with than Sherlock or the embarrassing fact that he was technically running away from his own soulmate.

Before he had time to fully register what had happened he found himself unlocking the door to his bedsit. He closed the door and sat down on his bed before the burning in his mark drove him to the bathroom. He took off his coat and looked up into the mirror his hands steady even as his mind raced. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off his shoulders letting it fall to the floor. He took another breath as he slowly began to lift the undershirt. His heart stopped beating as he looked at the smattering of shattered green across his chest that slowly formed into a shape that vaguely resembled a ladder. He gave the mirror a bitter smile and straightened out his shirt. 

He didn't usually believe in things like this but he was beginning to wonder if telling his therapist that nothing happened to him was a good idea. People tended to say that soulmates were fated for each other and it felt like he'd tempted fate since in less than an hour after he'd said that nothing happened to him he ended up running into Mike who had almost introduced him to his soulmate Sherlock Holmes. Even just thinking of the name sent another frisson of pure energy through his mark. He felt torn between feeling grateful to Mike for trying to introduce them, an emotion that was certainly influenced by the mark on his chest, and furious that Mike had tried to set him up with a man he'd sworn to avoid until death took him, something that John was certain wasn't influenced by his unwanted soul mark.


	4. Certainly

Sherlock walked briskly down the street his grip on the mobile phone in his hand like iron, Mike Stamford's name glowed on the screen as the phone beeped out the default ringtone he never bothered to change. He answered it his tone reflecting the annoyance that was building as he stepped into Speedy's to order something he didn't need to eat but his body insisted on. "Why are you calling me?"

Mike cleared his throat on the other end of the line sounding sheepish and a bit embarrassed as he spoke. "You wouldn't happen to have a soul mark would you? And if you do have one it wouldn’t happen to be skull shaped by any chance?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks as his mark pulsed at the word skull. He cursed the annoying and inexplicable needy cravings for food that plagued him, the sudden need to eat had separated him from the soulmate he needed to get on the serial suicide (killings) case. His mind filtered through the very narrow list of reasons Mike would ask that question and there was only one answer. "Where is he?"

"I don't know where he is." Mike said his apologetic voice crackling through the receiver. "I never asked him where he lived."

Sherlock swallowed down the you should have that wanted to escape from his throat. "His name?"

"John, John Watson, his middle name starts with an h, but he never told me what it stands for. He was a friend of mine in Uni, we hung around each other a lot. He had a soul mark over his heart, looked like a skull, think he was drunk when he showed it to me. I'd never even seen a soul mark before, but it sure was something, it kept changing even as I was looking at it." Mike rambled, excitement and uncertainty making war in his voice. 

Sherlock hung up the phone feeling strangely hollow as he turned and left Speedy’s. He stopped taking note of the unmanned police car that was stopped by the door of his flat. He walked the short distance to his flat and walked up the stairs, taking note of a strong smelling, but not unpleasant masculine tang to the air. He ran the rest of the way up the stairs scowling when he saw Lestrade sitting in his chair leaning back into it like a king resting on his throne.

“I was under the impression that I’m not welcome on your crime scenes.” Sherlock said stripping off his scarf he walked toward the window looking down at the police car parked by the flat.

“You’re not. Stopped by to check up on you, I can see you haven’t died yet, found him?” Lestrade asked as he watched Sherlock walk in circles.

“I found a lead. Someone I’m aquatinted with knows a man named John, a former Army Doctor, with a skull shaped reactive soulmark. I haven’t yet had a chance to talk with him, but the odds are in my favor.” Sherlock said sounding nothing like a man on the verge of meeting his soulmate. Instead he sounded like he was being fitted for a noose.

Lestrade sighed his body sagging with relief. “Good, because next time I’m not letting you in without him.”

Sherlock stopped in his pacing as the words registered. “And this time?”

Lestrade winced but didn’t try to deny the truth, he’d given up on that when Sherlock had entered his life.“I’m desperate.”

Sherlock pivoted on the ball of his foot turning to look down at Lestrade, seeming as calm as the ocean before a storm. “Where?”

“No Sherlock.” Greg said looking and sounding the part of the concerned father as he stood and pointed at the other man with a judgmental finger. “We’re not doing this your way this time, you are not going to get yourself killed on my watch. You’re taking the car with me, no excuses, and when we get there no over exerting yourself. You’re not going to run off unless you bring me or another officer with you and if we ask you to stop you will stop. If you start to feel dizzy or sick in anyway we are taking you home and you aren’t going to set foot on another crime scene until you can find your soulmate.”

He stepped towards Sherlock his voice soft but slightly hoarse. “Are we clear?” 

Silence rang through the flat and Greg snarled his voice raising into a shout. “I said are we clear?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes with all the dramatic flare of one of Lestrade’s teenage daughters. “Crystal.”

Lestrade breathed in a harsh breath through his nose. “I’m serious Sherlock I’ll ask Mycroft to send some of his men to babysit you if you attempt anything stupid. I won’t hesitate, not anymore.”

“Please Lestrade I’m not Anderson.” Sherlock said his lips twisting up even though Anderson wasn’t around to know that Sherlock was insulting him.

“Yeah I know Anderson actually listens to me when I’m talking.” Leastrade said with his lips quirked into a smirk before he waved to the door. “ Now get in the car and not in the driver’s seat.”

 

“What are you waiting for, someone find him and bring him back!” Less than an hour Lestrade shouted as Sherlock ran off into the night, fleeing the crime scene with a loud shout of the word pink. 

Standing at the top of the stairs Lestrade admitted to himself that he’d been foolish to think that Sherlock wouldn’t run off. He’d probably have Sherlock to blame in a year or so when his heart finally gave out from the stress. Sherlock had seemed to be normal, well his version of normal, at first acting like his usual self, trading insults with Anderson and Donovan, but as he walked up the stairs he winced with almost every step and for a moment there it almost looked like he was limping.

Still he hadn’t thought much of it, shattered marks were supposed to be painful from what he’d heard and Sherlock had seemed fine enough. His opinion began to change when Sherlock started investigating the body. Every so often he seemed distant, dull and barely alive. He’d look over his shoulder and blink stunned at the empty space behind him before returning his focus to the body. Every so often when he spoke spilling forth a flood of deductions and information instead of saying Lestrade or any name that started with a g that wasn’t Greg he’d say John. Sometime’s he’d even ask John something and his eyes would go vacant before he went on like nothing at all had happened.

It was unsettling, like watching someone talk to a ghost. He’d expected some changes to Sherlock’s behavior, shattered soulmarks and near death experiences weren’t something easily shrugged off. It was still worse than he’d expected it to be, seeing how lifeless Sherlock looked now, how death seemed to cling to him like an old friend. This was a mistake, but by the time he’d fully realized that Sherlock had already made his escape.

 

After running from his soulmate John had half expected to experience one of the thousands of clichéd sometimes world ending scenarios that usually accompanied this sort of rejection of a soulmate in the movies. The universe however apparently had better things to do than multiply the misery in his life for dodging his destiny. He wasn’t drenched in a sudden rainstorm, or struck by lightning, or hit by a speeding lorry, or even as had happened in one particularly bad romantic comedy been slapped by every stranger he walked by in the street. Instead he was just bored and alone and slightly paranoid, perhaps watching those movies with Harry had left a larger impact than he’d thought.

He went through his normal routine, grateful that nothing had happened, until he attempted to go to sleep. Sleep however wouldn't come to him, his mark burned and throbbed under his skin. After it became clear that sleep wouldn't be coming to him anytime soon he walked out the door for a walk through London hoping that the exercise would help him sleep. His sig was tucked into his waistband, the feeling gloriously normal in a way the bleak bedsit and the shattered mark on his chest were not. He was almost beginning to enjoy himself, then every phone that wasn’t a mobile that he walked past started ringing.

At first he hadn't really noticed, the ringing had struck him as odd but nothing to worry over or be concerned about. He simply walked past it and barely registered that it had stopped ringing. Then the next one he walked near rang and stopped ringing when he walked past. Then the next one, then the one in the window of the restaurant he walked past, and then the next one in a booth rang. He stopped staring at the ringing phone his pulse beginning to race when it didn’t stop ringing. The skull on his chest throbbed in time with the ringing and he looked around wondering if anyone else had noticed this phenomenon. No one had.

He stepped into the booth unsure if it was courage or curiosity that compelled him and picked up the receiver. He placed it to his ear somehow surprised when a voice spoke from the other end of the line. “Dr. John Watson, I would say that it’s a pleasure but I see no need for such pleasantries.”

John stopped breathing, shock rending his lungs useless. He closed his eyes and forced in a breath through his nose and spoke.“Who are you?” 

"No one of your concern Captain.” The other man, for the voice was certainly male, said with the kind of faux casual tone that grated on every last nerve John had.

“What do you want?” John’s tone was almost pleasant as he spoke, but he had no doubts that the other man could hear the undercurrent of iron in it.

“I want you to reconsider getting to know Sherlock Holmes." John’s heart thumped heavily against his chest as his mind went blank. His mark at the sound of Sherlock Holmes flared through his chest sending tendrils of hot cold sensation through every nerve ending in his body. 

John narrowed his eyes at the now familiar feeling of his mark reacting to his soulmates name as his annoyance with the man skyrocketed. His hand clenched into a fist but the smile on his face was pleasant, at least it would seem to be to people who didn't know him. "Why do you care that I don't want to meet Sherlock?”

Silence rang through clear on the other end, a silence that should have given the impression that the man was thinking it over, but John didn’t quite believe that. The silence was too measured, like a stage performance, designed to leave that impression, an idea that solidified as the man continued speaking. “I find myself invested in his life and in his continued wellbeing. Unfortunately he requires his errant soulmate to keep him healthy so I find myself in the unenviable position of having to convince you to accept the fact that you need him.”

“You're not my soulmate so I don't see how it is any of your business." John said with the calm even tone of a man who had faced death head on and lived.

"It could be.” The man said softly as though it could be denied but everything else in his voice painted it as fact, he might as well have said, it is my business.

"No it really couldn't." John’s free hand cured and uncurled into a fist by his side.

"And how would you know you've never met him?" The man laughed snidely the sound distorted by static.

"This mark we have might say that I belong to Sherlock and he belongs to me, but that doesn't mean I believe it.” Hurt thrummed hot and angry in his chest salt rubbed into a self inflicted wound.

The other man hummed. “And what do you believe?”

“I believe that I might have some choice in this, that my life is mine to do with as I please. This mark whatever it is, it’s not me, it does not control me." John grasped at the mark beneath his shirt his nail digging into the sensitive skin. He stopped and lowered his hand flushing in embarrassment even though he wasn’t entirely sure the man was watching him.

"I can see it now." The mysterious man said a grimace clear in his voice. 

"See what?" John snapped.

"Why whatever power or force that might be behind the soul marks thought you would be a good match for Sherlock.” The man sighed sounding weary in a put upon way. “Unfortunately you’ve already done more than enough damage.”

“I’ve done enough damage the man was on drugs!” John shouted before he remembered that he was talking on a public phone and lowered his voice. “I was willing to give up my dreams for him but if he didn’t care if we both died then why should I? I’d rather go out serving my country than dying from a secondhand overdose.”

"And how long are you going to hold onto that archaic sense of independence Dr. Watson? You've spent a lifetime following orders without question, why stop now when your life could depend on it?" The man asked like he already knew the answer.

"You are very determined to make me meet Sherlock." 

"We don't want him falling back into old habits now do we John?" The man said patronizingly. “I can only wonder what would happen to him, knowing that his soulmate rejected him so thoroughly. As if the knowledge that his soulmate was cheating on him wasn’t enough of a blow, I doubt either of you will have long left if you keep this up.”

“How could I cheat on him I’ve never even met him? Before I was shot I didn’t even know his name. The only thing I knew about him is that a skull works as a soulmark for us and he’s into drugs.” John exclaimed nearly knocking his hand against the glass wall.

“Katherine, Laura, Justine, Gloria, Natalie, I believe the first was Helen. Is that right John or is it hard for you to remember the names of your many conquests. I can assure you that Sherlock can name them all in chronological order of your indiscretions. You slept around and you knew you had a soulmate, what would you call that if not cheating?” The man asked his voice like his question cruel and cold and mocking.

“I was young, I woke up one day with a mark that said who I was supposed to be with, but I never asked to have a soulmate. I was loyal to my conquests as you called them; they knew that I had a soulmate and that if I met them things would end. He was distant some future thing that I’d find eventually, but he wasn’t there.” His stomach twisted as he spoke a sour feeling settling like a rock in his chest.

The mans voice changed the heat of hatred thinly veiled in the coldness of his tone.“Your excuses mean little to me. The only reason you’re even still alive is because it would kill Sherlock if I did him a favor and put an end to you.”

John scoffed. “And that would be a favor would it killing someone’s soulmate?” 

“In this case certainly.” The man sneered. 

“Then I think you’ve made your point.” John said pulling the receiver away from his ear to set it back in its cradle forcefully before storming out onto the pavement.


	5. Decaying

Sherlock picked at the pasta sitting in front of him cursing John once more for his sudden increase in appetite as he waited for Lestrade to discover that Sherlock was not the only thing that had gone missing from his crime scene. It really shouldn't be that easy to pick a cops pocket, Sherlock thought his lips forming a smile. He turned the borrowed phone over in his hands as he kept one eye on the building across the way. The phone in his hand buzzed and he sighed preparing himself for the ordeal that was going to occur before he answered the phone with a curt Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock why on earth do you have my phone again?" Lestrade shouted his voice turning into a mess of static as it boomed through the receiver. 

Sherlock moved the phone away from his ear to spare his hearing and rolled his eyes. "You can have it back when I've caught your killer."

Sherlock could hear the tinny sigh from the receiver as Lestrade schooled his voice more into that of a disappointed parental figure. "Sherlock you have a phone you don't need mine. How many times do I have to tell you that before you actually start to listen to me?"

"My number's on the website, someone might recognize it, it would have been too dangerous to use mine." Sherlock scoffed as Lestrade sputtered his objections over the line. He continued on ignoring Lestrade's rising anger in favor of showing off. "I found her case for you, she didn't have a phone on her and it wasn't in the case either. A woman carrying on a string of affairs would never leave her phone behind, so if it's not with her and it's not in her case where could it be?"

"I deduced that the killer must have it so I sent him a text that made him think that she is still alive and looking for her phone. He panicked, no one else getting that text would have attempted to call me back as soon as he did. I've set up a trap for our killer, he should be here any minute and if you show up looking for your phone my plan will be ruined." Sherlock said as his eyes narrowed in suspicion at a man who lingered on the doorstep of his bait house.

"You're supposed to be looking for your soulmate, how are you going to find him if you're dead?" Lestrade asked his worried anger nearly palpable as he waited for Sherlock to answer him.

"I'm not dead though am I, in fact I'm not in anymore danger than I usually am." Sherlock said his voice softening with distraction as a cab pulled up along side Twenty Two Northumberland Street and turned away a fare.

"Just tell me where you are, we're not going to blow your cover but I can't let you do this on your own." Lestrade said desperately lying through his teeth in an attempt to get Sherlock to listen to reason.

"I'm sorry Lestrade it looks like you're too late, he's here." Sherlock said as his attention was drawn back to the cab as another potential customer walked off in a huff. 

"Sherlock don't hang up on me! Sherlock don't you dare hang up that phone!" Lestrade shouted his voice so distorted by the static that it barely even resembled speech. 

Sherlock hit the end call button with another roll of his eyes and tucked the phone into his pocket. He picked up his glass of white wine, which had gone untouched since he'd ordered it and took a sip sloshing the liquid around in his mouth. His napkin found it's way into the drink not a moment later before he wiped his face with it spreading the scent of alcohol across his skin. Standing he affected a drunken swagger as he strode off into the street, his feet purposely failing him as he tripped and stumbled over to the cab.

He drummed on the window of the black car to get the cabbies attention beating out a nonsensical rhythm with his fists to the annoyance of the cabbie. The man rolled down the window and Sherlock under the guise of a drunken fool took in the sight of the most likely suspect. He was an older man, his hair completely white with age and covered by a newsboy cap. The man wore well worn clothes none of them less than three years old and he had on prescription glasses that were well cared for but in need of a change.

"Look at the light I'm off duty." The cabbie said tapping on the roof of the vehicle to draw attention to the unlit sign.

"I need to get to two two one b Baker Street." Sherlock slurred reaching into his coat for his wallet with shaking hands. "I can pay extra."

"I've driven men less drunk than you for extra and I've regretted it every time now go away, I'm off duty and I don't do drunks." The cabbie fumed practically bursting at the seams with impatience and frustration.

Sherlock groaned melodramatically throwing his back against the back door."It's just around the corner, it's Baker Street."

The cabbie snorted as though he'd just been told a joke he'd heard a thousand times that wasn't even funny the first time he'd heard it and hadn't grown any funnier since. "If its just around the corner you can walk there yourself."

Sherlock groaned and turned away while pulling Lestrade's phone to his ear. He hit Jennifer Willson's number and hissed into the phone. "How do you make them take the poison?"

The cabbie pulled out a garishly pink mobile phone and answered his question with a confused. "What?"

Sherlock reached into the rolled down window and took the cabbie by his shoulders shaking him as he roared. "I said how do you make them take the poison?"

The cabbie jumped back but was unable to escape Sherlock's grasp. He looked up at Sherlock and the consulting detective frowned at the triumphant smugness on the cabbies face. "Do any drugs Mr. Holmes? I ask because you're very resilient, most people would have passed out by now." 

Sherlock's eyes widened and he backed away, but he was too late, the drug that had been discretely injected into his arm already beginning its work.

"Okay let's get you home now." The cabbie said loudly hoping to be overheard as he got out of the cab opened the back door and picked up Sherlock."You've had too much to drink."

He dragged Sherlock to the back of the cab and lowered him onto the floor his lighthearted tone turning cold as soon as Sherlock was fully in the backseat. "Now don't even bother putting up a fight Mr. Holmes, as far as anyone knows you're just another loud drunk and I'm the poor put upon cabbie that's going to get you home all safe and sound."

He slammed the door closed and walked back to the front of the cab as Sherlock slipped into unconsciousness. "That's the trouble with people, they're all so stupid."

 

Sherlock groaned as he drifted back into consciousness and pain, his head pounded, his mouth was dry, and his mark burned steadily beneath his skin. His body felt like an empty shell that had been stuffed with cotton, too light, too shapeless, too stiff to move. He was forcibly sitting up his body braced against the chair he'd been shifted into by a rope tied around his waist and under his shoulders. He looked up the world a watery blur before he blinked away the moisture and found himself staring at the skull that sat on the mantle of his own fireplace. He jerked clarity overtaking his mind as he registered that he was sitting at the table that sat between the windows in his flat.

The cabbie walked into his line of vision dressed in bland washed out clothing with a bland forgettable face made memorable by the utter delight that shined in his smug expression. "Well Mr. Holmes I know your name, it's only fair if I tell you mine. My names Jefferson Hope, call me Jefferson, call me Hope, in a few minutes it won't matter what you call me." 

"You..." Sherlock's voice creaked out of his throat in a groan and he cleared his throat to speak clearly, though his voice didn't quite cooperate with him. Hs lungs burned and he felt as though no matter how much he breathed he couldn't draw in enough oxygen. "You brought me home?"

Hope pulled Sherlock's keys out from his pocket and jingled them. "I fished your keys out of your pocket and I thought why not people like to die at home, not that this place is much of a home. No pictures, no memories, no friends or family on the walls, just this eclectic collection of crap. The skulls are a nice touch though they set the mood." 

Hope smiled with smugly false geniality as he sat down at the table across from Sherlock. "We're going to be playing a little game Mr. Holmes I'm quite good at it too, I've won five times already." 

Hope reached into his jacket and set two amber bottles down on the table between them. He uncapped one of the bottles and shook one of the pills into his palm. He set it down on the table in front of Sherlock and repeated the process with the second bottle setting the pill down in front of himself. "Now the game is quite simple, one of these is the good pill take it and you live, the other one is the bad pill take it and you die. You pick one of the pills and I'll take the other one, the winner is the one who is still breathing when the poison kicks in."

Sherlock lifted his hand and pointed at them with arms that moved like a marionettes as the rope cut uncomfortable into his underarms. "Two pills. That's how you did it, you gave them a choice." 

Sherlock's voice was barely audible before outrage set in and he glowered at the cabbie and spat. "It's not a game it's chance, fifty fifty chance."

Hope snorted in disgust as his game was insulted. "It's not chance it's genius. I know how people think, I know how people think I think, I can see it all like a map in my head. Everyone is so stupid, even you, that's why I'll win this game just like I've won all of the others. You're not playing the odds Mr. Holmes you're playing me in the ultimate game of chess."

"I'm not going to play along when you haven't even given me a game." Sherlock said between struggling breaths.

Hope sneered as he slammed his hand down on the table rattling the glass bottles that sat innocently between them."It's not your decision to make Mr. Holmes it's mine, and I say you play the game or I'll shove the loosing pill down your throat, see if you can find it in you to make any clever retorts then. Now choose or I will choose for you."

"It's not a game it's chance!" Sherlock slurred his words rushing together as his blood roared in his ears, his mark a furnace under his skin. "There's no skill involved, no clever thought behind it, it's just a desperate man's shoddy attempt at Russian roulette."

Hope schooled his face into a more neutral expression, though the anger could still be seen burning behind his eyes. "You think I'm a desperate man and yet I'm still among the living, there must be a reason why. You can't tell me you're not curious Mr. Holmes I won't believe you. Not after you've gone through all this trouble trying to catch me." 

"You're not just a desperate man you're a dying one." Sherlock's eyes took on a smug gleam his head tilting to the side as his eyes darted over Hope and a slow smile took over his face as he watched the cabbie's face fall.

His would be killer laughed. "Well aren't you the clever one, figure that out on your own did you?"

He didn't wait for Sherlock to answer instead he tapped the side of his head with a laugh tinged with both bitterness and real amusement. "Aneurism right here. Any breath could be my last, but I won't be the only one dying, and I won't be forgotten, not like them, not like you will be. See that's the thing Mr. Holmes, no one remembers the victims, so I won't be a victim."

Sherlock scoffed his lips pulling back into a sneer. "No you've decided to be the killer instead."

"Killers are remembered Mr. Holmes, besides I haven't just killed five people I've outlived five people and that's the most fun you can have on an aneurism. I'd think you of all people could understand me given all that we have in common. Neither of us are long for this world." Hope tapped his chest over his heart his lips split in a grin as his voice rang with false sympathy.

Sherlock flinched as much as he was capable of with the drugs in his system and Hope's smirk turned sinister his head tilting to the side to study Sherlock's expressions. "Did you think I wouldn't notice? I got a good look at it too, it's such a mess, broken, scattered, decaying. I couldn't even tell what it's supposed to be. I've heard it's painful, excruciating even, tell me how much does it hurt?" 

He leaned across the table a predatory glint in his eye one hand bracing him against the table as the other reached out. Sherlock couldn't move the drug making his limbs too heavy to do anything more than shake as Hope pressed his hand firmly against his chest his fingers digging into the flesh. Sherlock's whole body froze as agony over took his being, John's name screamed in his brain even as his lips remained stubbornly closed. Hope pounded the flat of his hand against the spot his grin growing as Sherlock's pale face turned even paler and sweat started to gather on his brow. He shoved Sherlock back and leaned back into his own chair grinning as Sherlock struggled to breathe his eyes glazed over in pain. 

"Going by your mark though I don't think you've got very long at all, so from one dying man to another let's make our final hours interesting shall we." He picked up one of the pill bottles shaking it so that the pills inside clinked together before setting it down on the table. Sherlock looked down at the bottle with disdain before he looked up at the man sitting across from him. 

Sherlock looked down at the two pills and reached out with a numb unsteady arm to take the pill closest to Hope. He held it up with fingers that refused to close properly and a hand that shook when he forced it to move. "This one."

"So that's how you're going to play it?" Hope said grinning as he took up the other pill. He held the small white capsule up like it held the answers to every question that had ever been asked. "Well let's see who's won this round."

Sherlock lifted the pill to his lips in tandem with Hope the moment seeming to stretch on for ages as the cabbie goaded him on. "This is what you live for, this is the only game worth playing in the end. Everyone has their poison and this is ours, life and death in the palms of our hands. With a mind like yours you must be bored all the time, but I bet you're not bored right now, I think you're as alive as you are ever going to be."

Sherlock pressed the pill to his lips and had nearly opened them to swallow it when as a crack like thunder echoed through the room and resounded in Sherlock's chest. Hope gasped like a drowning man come up for air the sound a sickly wet gurgle as the pill fell from his fingers, He slid from his chair onto the floor red blood leaking from the hole in his jumper staining it before it began to spill across the floor. 

Sherlock's own pill slipped though his fingers as his body went lax with shock and relief that wasn't entirely his own. He jerked his head over to the window but there was nothing suspicious that he could see while he was tied to the chair. Nothing stood out to him except for the rotating hues of red and blue that grew ever closer. He stared down at the body unable to move as a chilling sensation washed over his chest soothing the burn that had resided there since his mark had shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry no John this time, it's a Sherlock solo chapter.


	6. Regret

John walked with no destination in mind to the click snap rhythm of his cane hitting the pavement. He needed to be alone, but the thought of returning to the bleak hopelessness of his bedsit kept him walking despite the pain. He needed to sort things out in his head before he could ruin things anymore than he already had. His eyes were hard and cold as he stared ahead his moving almost on autopilot only half aware of the world around him. His hands shook in building rage at the mystery caller for being right, at fate for tying him to a soulmate he could only bring ruin and an early grave, at the shattered skull on his chest for mocking him with all the proof he would ever need that he didn't deserve a soulmate, at himself for failing in every conceivable way. Anger burned in the center of his chest like a furnace and his mind unable to move from the thoughts of his soulmate kept throwing fuel to the fire.

He'd walked for quite awhile and though he had no intention of stopping his feet suddenly quit moving and he was jerked from his cyclical thoughts by the feeling that something was indescribably wrong. It was like a snake had coiled inside his chest, squeezing around his heart with a grip that was just strong enough to show that it was there, poised to strike at any moment fangs dripping poison. Pain crept searing tendrils through his chest and leapt like lightning from one shattered piece of his skull to the next. His throat constricted bringing to mind another snake as an icy cold feeling sunk in his stomach. The sense of wrongness seemed to seep into the air filling his lungs and weighing down his already heavy chest. His mouth formed the word Sherlock and like a curtain dropped at the end of a performance thought deserted him.

The pain in his chest was dismissed as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving behind only a bone deep knowing that Sherlock needed him and an urgent need to move now. Fuzziness crept across the corners of his vision as his heart began to race in his chest until his vision was a haze of grey. His legs had picked up the pace his heart was urging his body to take and it felt like he was falling, slipping through the cracks of existence. His world had plunged into a void of shadow, pierced by images and sounds that made less sense than trying to piece together a single puzzle when five different puzzles had been put into the same box with a hundred pieces missing from each of them.

Coming back into awareness felt akin to being thrown into a vat of ice water on a too hot day. It was too sudden and startling to be refreshing, sending him gasping for breath and struggling to keep his head above the non existent current. His thoughts were slow and sloppy spinning in his head at a lazy sluggish rhythm that he was still too slow to capture or make sense of. His body jerked his eyes flying open as he gasped for breath and his stomach took residence in his throat as the jerk sent him sprawling onto the floor. He gave into the temptation to just lie there for a while and groaned more from annoyance at the fall than pain though pain was plentiful in his body for the moment except in one area. 

He sat up his hand rubbing the spot over his chest as it dawned on him that not only was he on the floor of his bedsit his mark was surprisingly neither numb or painful. Instead it radiated with a pleasant coolness that was completely at odds with how lost and confused he was feeling. He couldn't remember getting in bed, he couldn't remember how he'd even gotten to the bedsit. He was still wearing the clothes he had on earlier and the last thing he recalled was slamming down the phone and walking down the pavement with every intention of avoiding his bedsit until he grew tired of pretending he still belonged on the streets of London. 

He checked in his pockets and looked at his phone the date on the screen mocking him. It was February first, he was missing two days, they were just gone, nothing but a blank space in his mind where his memories should be. He lifted himself up with shaking knees and sat down heavily on the bed as he tried to make sense of it. He pressed his hand against his forehead as he struggled to remember his lips spilling a cacophony of broken pleas that this was just a nightmare, just a dream, to wake up John, wake up. 

He didn't wake up.

Hours passed, his panic subsided, the dusky yellow of the lampposts and the darkness of the night faded before the brilliant light of a rising sun, and he was forced to admit that he couldn't recall anything that made any sense. There was a jumble of sounds, sensations, sights, and words; almost memories that teetered on the edge of his mind like a word he knew on the tip of his tongue but couldn't recall. Any attempt he'd made felt like walking into a labyrinth with a blindfold on and his hands out searching for purchase. 

Hunger drove him away from the mystery, along with an urgent need to relieve himself and a need to feel clean again if only in body. He stood lifting himself up on wobbly legs and he was halfway to the bathroom when he stopped his eyes blowing wide open as it suddenly registered that his leg though sore and somewhat creaky from inactivity wasn't hurting. His leg was working properly and a quick survey of the room revealed his cane was nowhere to be found. Another clue to add to the mystery of what the hell had he done when his mind had gone blank on him. He continued into the bathroom stubbornly refusing to think about his suddenly working leg until he felt more like himself.

He felt refreshed when he stepped out of the shower, the heat and the feeling of being clean helped to put some distance between him and the gaping hole in his memory. He dried himself off and put on his dressing gown before turning to the mirror with an apprehensive sigh. He'd caught sight of it in the shower once and then set about looking anywhere but directly at it until he could be certain that he was getting a good look at it. He looked at his mark in the mirror barely taking in his haggard appearance. His eyes widened at the broken but recognizable form of his skull surrounded by pills spilled out of an overturned bottle, fragments of what appeared to be a cut rope, and a single bullet. He let out a chocked little breath and struggled to take in a second as the sight of the bottle turned his stomach and sent an entirely unpleasant icy feeling through his chest.

He pulled his dressing gown closed and fled from the bathroom ignoring the pill bottle in favor of getting dressed. He put on the first suitable thing he found and continued to distract himself by searching through his pitiful little kitchenette. After a couple of minutes he managed to dig up two slices of bread that were still good and a can of beans. He set to work making his breakfast with thoughts of Sherlock and his missing days driving him to distraction. Looking down at the end product of his breakfast attempt he found his appetite deserting him. Though edible his breakfast was a bit scorched and not exactly satisfying or palatable. He debated going out and buying something else but in the end he ate what he'd made if he couldn't even cook without his thoughts waylaying him he dreaded what might happen outside where there were cars he could walk into. 

With his food finished there was only one thing John could think of to do. He needed to find Sherlock and while he could just call Mike up to ask him where he could find Sherlock he didn't have his number, so that option was out. He didn't have a phone book and without a last name he didn't have much to go on, though Sherlock was an odd enough name, there was a chance that there would be more than one Sherlock out there somewhere. Harry had asked him if he had a facebook or a twitter and his therapist insisted on him keeping a blog, if there was any luck to be had his soulmate would be on some form of social media.

He opened his drawer, pulled out his laptop, turned it on, typed the name Sherlock into the search bar, and hoped that something useable would come up. He hit the enter key and braced himself for whatever came next, the disappointment of nothing or the terror of an actual lead. What he found was a link to a site called The Science of Deduction and the instant he clicked on the link and the page opened he knew that this was the right one, his Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. 

His mark radiated with warmth as he found what he hoped was a fascinating look into his soulmates psyche. The website was engrossing and he honestly could have looked over everything again and again for hours on end without getting bored. The man seemed to be arrogant, every word he wrote seemed designed to make him seem insufferably full of himself, but if even half the things he'd written were correct then he had every right to be. This was either genius or insanity or some strange mixture of both and John was hard pressed to pull himself away. 

With some determination he left the long ramblings on the qualities of ash and found a phone number and an address that Sherlock had left for prospective clients to contact him with. With shaking hands he entered the number into his contacts and unsure he'd be able to speak he sent a text. 'Dinner?'

He hit send and regret hit him the second the message went through. "Dinner, why did I ask him to dinner? I ran away from him, nearly got us both killed, and instead of apologizing or asking if he's alright I ask him to dinner!"

'Wrong number. SH' The answering text beeped within seconds and John found himself muttering under his breath in frustration. "Just kill me now."

'Sherlock, it's John. I'm sorry.' He'd never known that sending a text could be painful, but from the pang that went through his chest apparently it could be. Did he even have the right number? If it was the right number then was this his Sherlock? Would Sherlock even want to speak with him? He took a deep breath and looked down at the three dots that vanished and reappeared again and again on the screen. His mark warmed beneath his skin and while the warmth was not entirely pleasant it wasn't painful, just uncomfortable. Time slowed down to a crawl and he stared down at the phone unable to take his eyes off of it, hours passed by in the seconds that it took for his phone to buzz again. 

Sherlock's text was a simple, 'Where? SH' and John found himself hiding a small smile amused that his soulmate signed his texts.

John's mind flashed through every place he knew and every place was discarded just as quickly as it appeared. Too formal for easy conversation, too casual for a proper apology, too intimate for two strangers just meeting, too loud to hear each other talking, too quiet and it would be too awkward, too many people and they wouldn't be able to concentrate on each other, and all of them were dismissed easily simply because none of them felt right. 'I don't know.'

John felt a flare of irritation and the text that popped up onscreen was enough to prove that it was from Sherlock. 'Why would you ask me to dinner and not know where to take me? SH'

'Same reason I chose a text instead of a call.' He sent it with a bit of apprehension, it was in no way a lie, but it wasn't the answer that he knew Sherlock was looking for.

'My place, thirty minutes, don't be late. SH' The invitation appeared on the screen to Johns relief and then confusion.

'Isn't it a bit early for dinner now?' For John the word regret was quickly becoming associated with text messages and the send button.

He could practically hear the frustrated sigh that would have proceeded the text as he read it. 'We'll have breakfast then. SH'

'Okay, see you soon.' With his reply sent he looked blankly at the screen, this was it, he'd found his soulmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is John's solo chapter so no Sherlock this time but the next chapter will feature both Sherlock and John.


	7. Neither

John is twelve and a half minutes early and a lifetime too late, Sherlock thought as the other man froze in the doorway as he attempted to walk into the mess that was 221B Baker Street. His fingers twitched reaching for the comfort of a cigarette that wasn't there as he took in the sight of his soulmate. Soldier, doctor, alone, broken, the puzzle came together as he took in the unassuming form of the man he was supposed to love, blonde hair in the stages of going grey, dark blue eyes, a stern thin mouth, short, bland, forgettable, contradictory, interesting. 

His Soulmate's eyes were drawn to the skull on the mantle and Sherlock noted the way his face flickered from emotion to emotion before going blank in a stillness that felt unnatural as the blood drained from his face. It was only to be expected when it was his skull grinning ominously at him, having it etched on his skin John must know, he’d certainly know it anywhere, but seeing it in the flesh so to speak must be jarring to the other man.

Looking over at his soulmate Sherlock felt his mark tingle as the still reforming remains of the skull pulsed with energy. His head throbbed, his chest ached, and his blood felt like liquid lightning running through his veins, it should have been painful instead it was was strangely pleasant. He felt giddy his head strangely light and his chest bursting with giggles that he clamped down on before they could escape and make him look like as much of an idiot as everyone else around him save Mycroft. But beneath that unexpectedly freeing feeling bitterness stained the room, old hurts and anger lurking just below the surface and he held onto them for stability in a world that had suddenly turned on it's head.

John on the other hand looked like he’d been struck his fingers clenching, his face frozen in a blank expression that somehow managed to convey volumes and yet at the same time nothing. His lips twitched, small flickering movements of muscle as his eyes looked off into the distance, their gaze unfocused and glassy. John shook off the shock a second later and though he tried for a stern look his face was too expressive and he couldn’t hide the awe and wonder from his expression or the obvious discomfort. 

Neither of them were ready for this, neither of them wanted this, and it was both a disappointment and a relief to see that sentiment reflected so clearly in John's eyes.

The silence hung between them like a body strung up from the gallows. The truth shouted and screamed over them from the teeth of the grinning skull that sat both on the mantle and their chests, but everything would be fine as long as they refused to listen. It passed between them unspoken but understood, a slight nod and a tightening of the lips and John sat himself down in the red chair across from him. Mercurial eyes analyzed him, but his eyes were drawn to the cracked and splintered skull peaking from the gap in the man's button down. He tried looking away busying his eyes with a look around at the rather eccentric decor he'd collected but inevitably his eyes always landed on the sliver of marked skin above the other man's heart. John must have known he'd want to see it himself even if the decision wasn't a conscious one. 

Sherlock found that he'd moved without realizing it, his back no longer pressed snugly against the back of the chair. Instead he was seated on the edge anticipation and fear a steadily brewing cocktail in his chest. His dressing gown was dropping from his shoulder and he felt more than saw John's eyes on his skull as surely as his own were on it's mirror.

"I won't be moving in with you." Sherlock tore his gaze from John's chest to look him in the eye. It was unsettling how John looked at him like he was either his salvation or his destruction and it itched under his skin and smoldered like hot coals, the need to go over and... He stopped the thought before it could start and continued speaking because the silence that had always seemed like an old friend to him was suddenly unbearable like chains wrapping around him, tightening on his throat. "My place is obviously better and there's a second bedroom if you'll be needing it."

John looked at him his face tight as he weighed up his answer in his head his expressions waring between uncertainty and resignation. He shook his head and the gesture was so small, Sherlock pretended he only noticed it because he'd spent a lifetime looking and seeing the things no one else seems to see. He pretended that there wasn't a part of him screaming in fear at the thought of being left alone, of being unwanted by everyone even his soulmate. 

"That..." John's voice caught in his throat as he shook his head again his fingers tracing the bridge of his nose, but to Sherlock the voice is unearthly in it's loveliness his mark warming at the sound the sensation spreading through him like the warmth of a good cup of tea. "That won't be necessary. Nothing has to happen, but distance can't be good. We've taken enough risks as it is."

John's smile was small and bitter and he couldn't tell if the gesture is meant for him or not, so he ignored it and instead nodded in agreement. The overwhelming giddiness was gone, stolen from the air by this exchange and he found the lack of it reassuring. After two days living with nothing but a yawning emptiness in his chest the lack of sensation, of feeling was almost a relief. 

"I'm sorry." John's unearthly voice was almost a whisper but it carried across the silence of the room with ease. Regret hung heavy over him, Sherlock could see it in the bow of his head and in the ridged line of his shoulders. 

He sneered at the sentiment his mark suddenly flaring with pain as the bitterness and anger hiding beneath the surface made themselves known. The nagging tether that connected them flared to burning painful life as rage burned a blazing furnace in his chest. Before he even knew that he'd moved he was across the room and he had John pressed into the high backed chair with his arms planted heavily on the arms of the chair and the weight of his voice holding tighter than any chains. "I don't want your pity, I don't want your sympathy, I don't want a soulmate, I don't want you!"

The silence was cloyingly heavy and the tension clung to the air crawling up like a vine on a wall. John's mouth was a tight line on his face, his eyes hard with anger and hurt as his chest heaved with heavy controlled breaths, but his anger drowned quickly in the waters of his regret lost like smoke in the breeze. His eyes softened and Sherlock released the arms of the chair jumping back like they'd tried to bite him. He turned unable to face John but John's soft unearthly voice found him despite his feeble attempt to escape. "That's fine Sherlock, I don't expect you to."

 

John's heart fell as Sherlock closed himself off, he could practically feel the walls going up around the other man. The fragile bond between them was fraying the connection dying before it had even finished forming. His soulmate was closer than he'd ever been before but John had never felt further from him. He stared at Sherlock's hunched shoulders and ignored the buildup on his tongue of words he couldn't even begin to bring himself to say, not when they're both so close to breaking, so close to shattering apart just like the marks on their chests had. He crushed down the desire to reach out and touch Sherlock, to draw him out from the shadows he'd cast himself under. He sat in a silence that lingered as he watched Sherlock move away from him. 

"You're lying." Sherlock's voice for all that it had been booming before was small, barely even a whisper. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides as his jaw worked forming and breaking words between his teeth before he finally found the right ones to say.

"You're my soulmate." Sherlock said bitterly spitting the word soulmate like it tasted sour in his mouth, something wild and hurting in the catch of his voice and the staggered breaths he took. "Of course you expect me to love you."

John's mark felt like it was shattering all over again, but this time there was no swooping darkness there to sweep him away from the pain. Instead he was wide awake in his agony. His hand shook and pain shot down his leg, but he embraced it letting the pain rush over him and crash down like waves breaking over a rocky shore. He looked over at the skull on the mantle the empty eye sockets seeming to bore into him and he couldn't hold the sightless gaze anymore than he could Sherlock's. The mark on his chest suddenly made perfect sense, they were doomed from the start. His soulmate didn't want him, he resented the fact the he needed him. 

"You're probably right, there probably is a part of me that can't help it, but we can't turn back now can we." 

It wasn't a question but Sherlock answered him anyway his lips twisting into a sneer that would have looked cruel if it wasn't so pained.

"Unfortunately not, I'll need you to get Lestrade to let me get back to the Work." Sherlock said, the word Work lingering on his lips like he doesn't want to stop saying it and John felt that familiar angry hurt pang go through him even as he grabbed at the safe haven it promised. 

"Your work means a lot to you then, what do you do?" John asked ignoring the bite from his mark as he eyed Sherlock warily hoping to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters. 

"I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world I invented the job." Sherlock said pride coating every word he spoke.

John blinked turning the words over in his head before offering them over to Sherlock for clarification. "And that means?"

Sherlock turned into his chair dropping down like an unnaturally graceful stone. "When the police are out of their depth which is always they consult me, I solve the cases they say can't be solved, but I don't waste my time on the boring ones. A puzzle without any challenge to it is hardly worth the effort of putting together."

The police don't consult amateurs, John thought, but instead of voicing this he nodded along despite his uncertainty. Whether Sherlock was bound for genius or madness it didn't matter now, they needed each other. Nothing else mattered, they could find some common ground, some place to start. He could hold on, pretend that Sherlock didn't mean what he said, burry the painful words and hurt, and focus on holding their fraying bond together.

"So the tobacco ash..." John said his face rapidly turning red, the confusing mix of emotions swirling about in his chest and the embarrassment from the condescending look his soulmate shot at him made the words dry out and crumble in his throat. He coughed to clear out the rubble and forced the words to form. "from your blog, did that have to do with a case?" 

"It's from several cases, people are messy." Sherlock said with a self satisfied grin, smug pride radiating from his eyes. He waved his hand out gesturing to the room around him as though the bric-a-brac and clutter was all someone else's instead of his."Wherever you go you leave pieces of yourself behind even as you pick up things you never even noticed, the ash from a recently smoked cigarette, the gravel from the path you walked that morning, a leaf from the garden you tend, a hair from your pet dog scruffy. Each and everyone of those things can identify a killer. Together the smallest pieces of a puzzle can reveal so much more than you would expect."

"Like this phone for instance." Sherlock said with a wicked grin as he reached into a pocket and held up a very familiar phone he waved it back and forth for a moment in front of John. 

John gaped as he grabbed at his pockets turning then inside out until he looked at the phone in defeated outrage. "That's my phone! How did you get my phone?"

Sherlock's smug smile was back as he looked at John with twisted glee. "From your pocket, where else would I have gotten it? You on the other hand got this phone from your alcoholic brother Harry who recently walked out on his wife."

John blinked in confusion before looking at the phone like it had betrayed him as his mind struggled to catch up. "How?"

Sherlock tossed him the phone. "I put the puzzle together."


End file.
